There was another long breath. Annoyance or impatience. “They may well be, Ms. Greer. But I’m afraid I didn’t write either one of them.”
“No, I didn’t think you had. I was just hoping you might be able to tell me who did—or anything about them, really.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say you own a bookstore?”
“Yes. In Portsmouth.”
“I guess I’m confused. You’re calling about a pair of books I’ve never heard of and you want me to tell you who wrote them?”
“I’m so sorry.” She needed to slow down and start at the beginning. “I should have been more clear. I own a rare bookshop called An Unlikely Story. A few weeks ago, you brought several boxes of books to a vintage boutique. The owner is a friend of mine. He calls me when he gets books in that he thinks might be of interest to my shop.”
“Excuse me. I was under the impression that you were calling about my books. Books I’d written.”
Books he’d written? Finally, Ashlyn understood. “Right. I can see now why you were confused. I didn’t realize you were a writer. What kinds of books do you write?”
“Sleep aids, mostly. Nonfiction. Political history. Very . . . academic.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I assure you, it’s not. But I think I understand. You’re talking about the boxes I donated a few weeks ago. Those books belonged to my father.”
Finally, they were getting somewhere. “Yes. Your father’s books. I’m sorry, by the way. About your father’s passing, I mean.”
“Thank you. He was a bit of a pack rat where books were concerned, where everything was concerned, actually. I needed to clear shelf space for my own books. A neighbor gave me the name of the shop in Portsmouth.”
“Do you happen to remember a pair of books with blue marbled boards? Three-quarter bound in Moroccan leather? Gold embossing?”
“I can’t say I recall any of them specifically. There were so many. I assume you think they might be worth something?”
“No,” Ashlyn replied carefully. “Not worth something. Not exactly. But they’re . . . intriguing.”
“Intriguing how?”
“There’s no author name on either one of them. No copyright pages either. But the stories are unusual too. Out of the mainstream, you might say.”
“So we’re talking about fiction?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Memoir, then? Or autobiography?”
“That’s the thing. I can’t tell. They may be both. Or neither. I’ve made a few calls, but so far I haven’t found anyone who’s heard of either title, though it’s hard to research a book when you don’t know the author’s name. That’s why I called you. I was hoping you might shed some light on the mystery.”
“Sorry. As I said, the books belonged to my father. A few may have been my mother’s. All I did was take them off the shelves and pack them into boxes. Beyond that, I really can’t help you. You do seem awfully interested, though, for books that aren’t worth anything.”
Ashlyn hesitated. He suspected her of withholding something. And wasn’t she? But how could she explain what she had experienced the first time she opened Regretting Belle, that her touch had unleashed someone else’s emotional storm? Ethan Hillard was the only lead she had. She couldn’t afford to scare him off with a lot of woo-woo talk. And she would if she opened that particular door.
“I am interested,” she answered at last. “But not because they might be valuable. I’ve never run across anything like them. Their stories are sort of woven together, like an argument taking place across the pages. But they’re so completely anonymous. Purposely anonymous, it seems. I can’t imagine why anyone would go to the trouble of writing a book, then leave their name off it.”
“Writers have been doing it for hundreds of years.”
“Yes, but they generally use a pseudonym, like Ben Franklin and Silence Dogood. But these books have no author. Literally no name of any kind, anywhere. I get not wanting the details of your love life splashed all over the place, but then why write them down at all?”
“So you’re saying the characters are real? That what’s written in them actually happened?”
He hadn’t bothered to hide his skepticism and it annoyed her. “I think they might be, yes. The books dovetail perfectly as far as narrative goes, but the voices are completely different. One is written by a man, the other by a woman, but they tell the same story. A love affair that clearly ended badly. The writing is so tortured and raw. Beautiful, actually, but ultimately sad. Both of them determined to acquit themselves of blame for whatever happened between them. They’re quite extraordinary.”
“A love that ended badly? Sounds anything but extraordinary, if you ask me. Interesting premise, though, telling it in two books. A clever way to double your sales.”
“I thought that, too, at first, but my gut tells me that isn’t what this is. I think it really happened. All of it, just like it’s written. I just don’t know who it happened to.”
“And you thought I might?”
“It was worth a shot. I thought maybe you’d seen the books growing up or might even have read them.”
“I don’t read much fiction, actually. No, that’s not true—I don’t read any fiction.”
“I understand. I just thought your father might have mentioned them at some point, or that you might have some idea how they’d found their way onto his shelves.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you there. I won’t pretend to understand why you care about something that may or may not have happened between people who may or may not have existed, but I wish you luck with your sleuthing.”
“Right, then,” Ashlyn said, acknowledging his wish to end the conversation. “Thanks so much for returning my call. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
She hadn’t actually expected Ethan to solve the mystery with a single phone call, but she couldn’t help feeling deflated as she hung up. Unless Ruth came through with something on the illustrious Goldie, her chances of finding out what really happened between the lovers were practically nil.
Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe the whole thing was ridiculous and she should let it go before she became any more distracted. The books were already taking up hours that would be better spent in the bindery. But even as she acknowledged the wisdom of abandoning this strange new obsession, she felt the pull of it. Of them—whoever they were—and their unfinished story, beckoning her to read on.
Forever, and Other Lies
（pgs. 11–28）
September 5, 1941
Water Mill, New York
I arrive at the farm two hours early and pull up to the courtyard behind the stables. I’m early on purpose, to get myself planted and remind myself that today we’ll be on my turf—and that I’ll not let you have the upper hand. I was caught off guard last night, surprised to find you milling about the Whittiers’ drawing room with your aging amour glued to your side. But I’m prepared now for whatever game you might be playing. Forewarned, as they say, is forearmed.